


A light that never goes out.

by Noj Mons (ehwgrantaire)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehwgrantaire/pseuds/Noj%20Mons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>« Every now and then he let his eyes wander on the lithe figure of Enjolras, a boy that felt way too comfortable with monologues, apparently, and he couldn’t help being fascinated by all that light. Light in the mane of his hair, that looked like pure gold in the sun, light in his eyes, lit up by the brightest of intentions, by the fire of adolescence, by adventure. By the fire quintessential to every man that deems his own self immortal, indestructible. The fire that in Grantaire had blown out years before and that had never burned like it should, or could, have done. So Grantaire allowed himself to bask into that light, just like mother Earth did with the Sun. The tendency to get close was strong, but an ancient fear stopped him in his tracks. Something in his gut tried to tell him that he was forgetting a detail about the sun, an important one, that he should remember, and very soon. »<br/>from chap. 2.</p><p>After his mother's death, Grantaire, a sarcastic guy with a fascination for painting & urbex exploration, is forced to move in with his father, who lives in Paris.<br/>Here he'll have to go through his last year of high school.<br/>Weird people become new friends, time flies, life ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Let's be alone together!'

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!  
> Welcome to the first chapter of this high-school-cliché-AU, obviously-set-in-a-future-where-no-one-has-died work. It was a Christmas gift for my bae - still in progress.
> 
> Soon I'll provide you with the appropriate music choices to listen while reading this up. For now, just loop The Kooks' "Naive" until you get bored of it.
> 
> p.s. The so-said bae did the translating from Italian so forgive us for any mistakes and whatnots - just leave a comment and we'll fix them up as soon as we read it. Promise.

The washed out schoolbag, studded with holes but not even a single patch on them, had been stuffed just that very moment full of second-hand books that were falling apart - they were way too worn out to be even labelled as… well, ‘second-hand’.  
Not that their owner cared - he was too busy rubbing his eyes with both hands.  
He hadn’t even flipped through any one of those books, he wouldn’t even have opened them if it were up to him, and he wouldn’t have needed that to understand what pitiful year was about to start for him.  
Even now that he had been forced to move in his fathers’ “mansion” - a flat counting three rooms, bathroom included - things didn’t seem to have gotten better.  
In fact.  
For a minute there, he had thought that maybe in Paris, city of dreams and esteemed capital, things would have changed.  
But the three summer months had convinced him that there was absolutely nothing different, apart maybe from an increase of drug dealers, gypsies and criminals that teemed the city.  
And on the first day of school, at the sight of the desert stove and the cleared table, he realized he would never eat a hot breakfast again.  
Reluctant, he pulled out a few euros from his fathers’ wallet - he was sleeping, collapsed on the couch with a bottle of… something inbetween his fingers, a disgusting grin on his face, and a smell he couldn’t stand, reeking in every corner of the shack he was now used to calling ‘home’.  
As soon as he stepped out of his own abitation, he didn’t miss the opportunity to spit on the doormat that read a fake, slanted ‘welcome’.  
‘Fuck’.

• • • 

Meanwhile, a few streets away, Combeferre was running from one corner to another of his house.  
His parents were calmly sitting at the kitchen table, impeccably dressed, his mother with her nose buried in the daily newspaper, his father carrying on eating the crêpe he had in his plate without the help of a knife.  
\- Dad, this shirt is full of wrinkles. –  
\- Don’t blame me, it was your mother who did the ironing, for once… -  
\- Now I see. – muttered Combeferre, over his mothers’ indignant voice.  
– I work! Appreciate the gesture. And you don’t have time to iron it out again, Enji is almost here. – from the window facing their small garden, the silhouette of a boy with an incredible golden mane was getting clearer and clearer.  
Combeferre, in his mind, went through the list of what he needed: he had three notebooks, he had his pencil case, he had his planner, he even had his diary.  
He could have said he was ready. He fixed his already perfect tie for the last time in front of the oval mirror in the living room, straightened his glasses on his nose and he noticed that, after a whole summer spent in Germany - with little or no sun - his hair looked a lot more ginger than it had ever been, damn.  
That, his obvious shortsightedness and his eccellent marks had him bullied on his first day of his first year of preschool - and on every other one.  
Kind of an eternal curse from some evil witch. Ferre let out a sigh, a mixture of conviction and resignation, and before Enjolras had had time to ring their bell, he was already out of the door.

• • • 

– Courf! – the boy who had just ran up to him already had his football tee on, despite it being only third hour.  
– Hey! It must have been such an agonizing summer with no humanitarian work to do. – grinned Courfeyrac, wolfing down the croissant he had in his hands.  
Combeferre looked at him, undeniable admiration in his eyes. – So, how was it, wherever you were? -  
– Germany. –  
– Quebec. – they answered together.  
\- By the way, fine. I heard you can sign an organization or a class to the WWF. It’s easier than sending a subscription on your own. –  
\- I didn’t know there were the WWF headquarters in Quebec – replied Courfeyrac, visibly amused. Then, with nonchalance, he turned his eyes to Ferre, who tried to smile a little bit more at him. – And you? –  
\- Meh, grandparents are good. Berlin is always the same. - he shrugged. - It wasn’t warm, as you can see – he pointed at his pale skin, contrasting with Courfeyrac’s cookie-coloured one.  
Nobody had talked about his hair, thank Goodness, and for once Ferre dared to think that maybe, being friends with the football team captain, his first day would have been just an ordinary, tedious and calm first day of school. – I’ve been to Italy. It has been fun, my parents set up something with Marius and Eponine’s parents, ‘cause they were going to Italy too. We did a lot of diving and stuff like that. I guess Eponine really fell for Marius — but, details later. – the boy let out an all-dimples smile, far bigger than the ones he had already gifted his friends with until that very moment, and that made the other two smile back.  
– However, E, see you at selections later. I swear this year I’m going to let you in without all the fuss we made last time. And if I can I’ll get Adrien kicked out for once, I’m sick of all the bullshit he comes up with — his face darkened for a second.  
But in the blink of an eye, he was back to smiling. He gave Ferre a pat on the shoulder, making him jump just a little bit, then he beckoned Enjolras and went back in the hallway where he came from.  
\- He went on holiday with Marius? –  
\- They spend a lot of time together. – agreed Ferre, steering towards his locker. End of break would ring soon, and his philosophy teacher would hear no excuses. Not even if you had won the gold medal in the Philosophy Olympic Games four years in a row.  
\- I wouldn’t say that, I was just wondering how Courf hasn’t had enough of him. Pontmercy is so boring… —  
— Oh come on, just because he doesn’t agree with you sometimes… —  
— Sometimes? If it were up to him, the school would be under Alphonse’s control. Alphonse, Alphonse, I don’t know if you understand. – Enjolras raised an eyebrow, eloquently. Ferre shook his head. — You’re crazy. — he stated firmly, before going back to searching through his stuff, arranged by timetable necessities.  
Enjolras, despite being only seventeen, wasn’t a pimpled guy at all. Pretty much the opposite. Many said his beauty was extraordinary.  
Even with that unflattering uniform, his sharp cheekbones, his pale and perfect skin, his bright red lips made him shine like he was the only light in a misty night.  
His hair spilled on his face and shoulders like a golden waterfall. His light blue eyes were similar to glaciers. Not unlike them, they were pure and biting.  
In a three-people-conversation, no one looked at Ferre if Enjolras was there too, but he was perfectly comfortable that way.  
On the other side, Enjolras, not-so-secretly, loved being looked at. Not because of vanity, narcissism or a pretty accurate self-conscience, but because he simply couldn’t be uncomfortable under a spotlight. Because, just like he was born to carry on a debate, Ferre was born to write the words that would form it.  
If Enjolras was the main actor, Ferre was the autocue. And, honestly, he couldn’t have been happier. He wasn’t dissatisfied with the way the looked.  
He would never cry on his ginger hair, his thick glasses, his pale skin or his skinny body, simply because he knew there was so much more besides physical appearance.  
And from the crystal tower which elevated him over the rest of the world he could see it clearly.  
\- However, are you still trying out for the team? I thought you were done after Adrien wrecked your locker door last year.  
\- Never give up with bullies. — Enjolras puffed out his chest and straightened his shoulders, looking even more authoritative.  
Sure, he was still too slim to look like a military general, but no one would risk ruining such a masterpiece; of that, Ferre was more than certain. 

• • •

The locker room was now packed with chattering, sweaty boys, someone content with their field game, someone upset.  
— Board will be out tomorrow — had shouted Courfeyrac, who had been the leading captain for three years - and counting - and who led the team to victory every single one of those years.  
In saying that, he had winked at Enjolras, who hadn’t flinched and lowered his head in a silent “thank you”. During the summer, he had trained hard with Bahorel, another member of that unhinged team - that somehow seemed to work - and so he went from being “quite incapable” to “quite decent”.  
The previous year, he’d mostly kept the bleachers warm, by sitting as a reserve, but that year he was going to give his all.  
In the locker room, Courfeyrac walked up to him, gave him a pat on the shoulder and started praising him, whilst strapping off his knee pads, even if Enjolras couldn’t quite understand what he was blabbering with the gumshield in his mouth.  
He thanked him anyways while he took off his dirty, wrinkled tee. He would be needing a new one, he thought, walking up to the showers to clean up, at least a little bit.  
Last year’s one was a bit tight, and that could only make him happy. He had put on some muscles and it made him strangely proud.  
The locker room was emptying, thank God, as he didn’t really feel like showing his half naked body to the school jocks, who were repulsing enough in ordinary clothes. When he finally stepped into the shower box, he let the lukewarm water run through his hair, on his barely-there abs, down his hips covered up by boxer shorts.  
It was cold for his standards, despite it being only September. He stayed there for no more than a few minutes, before stepping out and frantically looking for a towel that would save him from getting a polmonitis.  
He had managed to grab his white one and throw it on his shoulders before turning around to find Adrien in front of him.  
Adrien was a six-foot-two giant - not much taller than Enjolras, in reality - but he had twice as body mass and overall bulkiness that would have had every brute turn green with envy. Enjolras made a move to get away, but the other one had him cornered.  
The boy slipped, hitting hard what would have been the rim of the shower, too out of breath to snark back. Instead of helping him or at least calling for help, “big boy”, with the most disgusted face, did nothing more than whisper, mockingly and way too calmly, something that to Enjolras’ ears, thrown out by the pain, sounded like “faggot”. But the boy couldn’t be certain at all, because, just a second later, Adrien had been literally slammed into the lockers.  
Courfeyrac still had his helmet on, but no one seemed to notice. Mainly because the bathroom was all of a sudden empty, and there was nobody to stop what couldn’t be stopped. — What the fuck did you just say?! — he yelled, tightening the grip that held Adrien’s neck against the lockers.  
The jock tried to gasp something and to hit him, at least to free himself from what was becoming a painfully slow death. But before he could even try targeting Courfeyrac’s steady hand, he hit him, first in the stomach, then full on his face, probably wrecking his nose, judging from the amount of blood he was shedding. — COURFEYRAC! STOP! — begged Enjolras, going to step up. But something went wrong: he hit his head and somehow he found himself on the ground again.  
The towel he’d put under his head was crimson red with blood — and the flow wouldn’t stop. Even his hands were that shade of deep red. Courfeyrac, again, pushed Adrien against the lockers, leaving him to crumple like burnt down paper.  
— You’re bleeding! —  
— He is too. Jesus Christ, there was no need to smash his nose! — whined Enjolras, drying the cut on the back of his head.  
— Wait here. Let me get to Ferre and we’ll go to the infirmary. —

• • •

— Listen to me, newcomer. You better leave this place and those cigarettes to us and go find somewhere else to meditate on spaces you can or cannot invade on your first day. —  
Grantaire’s eyes rose to the source of the speaking voice, blowing smoke out of his lips.  
— We live in a free country, I guess. One that sucks, but at least it is free. —  
— A free country, you say, huh? — the guy who was talking to him didn’t stand out for any particular physical feature. Well, he didn’t stand out for good looks for sure, Grantaire was more than certain of that. Or maybe he stood out for the atrocity that was his face, yes.  
— Then I am free to kick your ass if you don’t move at my count of three. — Grantaire, his back against the grainy wood of a tree and his face staring in the void, did nothing but keep smoking, exasperatingly slowly. The boy who had spoken bended towards him, maybe in for a threat or just to make sure he’d heard every single word. — One… —  
“Odd how some people count starting from ‘three’ and some other go backwards.”  
He was now so close to R that he could feel the stench of whatever he’d eaten before. Something that implied tuna, probably. The smell made his skin crawl - and his father came to his mind, meaning that he must have been seriously disgusting. It almost made him choke on the smoke.  
— Two… —  
He was now so close to Grantaire that he noticed his eyes were a bit too far buried into his skull and they made him way more than asymmetrical, almost beast-like. In the end, a very good subject to draw. — Three… —  
He was now so close that R could blow the smoke out on his ugly face, and he did, with a bored glance, just seconds before burning out the imprint of the remnants of his cigarette on his forehead.  
The guy screamed, pushing him even deeper into the tree, maybe hoping for him to merge into it.  
His forehead was a perfect pincushion nonetheless. The two that were with him, being the A+ students they were, didn’t take more than a second to pin him arms and legs down, blocking his brave attempt to flee.  
They slammed him against the tree, one more time, and at that point R wondered if it was something to be found in the worst scum or if they had simply made plans on the phone in-between a gossip or two. Sadly, he didn’t get much time to come to a conclusion before finding himself kneeling down, under the tree he would have deemed ‘peaceful’ just minutes ago, with a giant blocking his body and another one holding his head down by pulling his hair.  
Grantaire didn’t flinch, not even when a knee hit him in the face, again and again, breaking his nose and smashing his gums.  
— Do you want your place, son of a bitch?! Here it is! — the last one wasn’t a knee, but a full-force kick that made enough blood spill to properly water all of the plants under him. They were a nice red, thought Grantaire as they left him as they’d found him, against the tree, and he couldn’t help asking himself if blood did good to the plants. “Sure flesh does good to worms.”

• • • 

The empty room filled slowly, and even more slowly the students found themselves a spot.  
Mainly couples were formed, with many desks inbetween.  
Or at least that was what Grantaire noticed, throwing his backpack in the left corner of the third row of the almost deserted classroom.  
He guessed there wouldn’t be more than ten people, staring at the French map, hung up on the washed out wall by red and blue pins. ‘Oh my god’, he was almost disgusted by the way in which whoever did that had even matched the colours in a patriotic surge.  
He hid his face behind his deflated backpack and plugged his earphones in his ears. Detention in his old school was an hour where you could listen to music and roll out cigarettes for later in the afternoon, just so you could save on the money.  
The French map wasn’t the only weird thing about that place. Cockades that reminded him of the flag motif decorated the corners of the room, in-between of which stood out a crucifix with a painful look.  
‘I get you.’, he thought.  
It was two in the afternoon and therefore the classroom should have been complete.  
The ugly individual who beat him — and who, he had just discovered, was called Alphonse. I mean, who on earth, being named Alphonse, would be able to live a happy and peaceful life?! - had just entered the scene with 1) his phenomenal bodyguards behind his ass, 2) a sweater in a horrible color shade.  
Grantaire was no Alexander McQueen for sure, but that was one shitty sweater. 3) a considerable, as well as artistic, as well as bigger than what R was expecting, as well as really pleasing burn right in the middle of his forehead that 4) made him look hopelessly like a cunt more than 5) he already was.  
R grinned, shaking his head. Sure, he had nothing to laugh at with a band-aid stuck horizontally across his nose and a bruised face. But at least he wasn’t the only one, because another guy had entered seconds before and he didn’t have only a band-aid, but a full ‘broken-nose’ cast, aka a seemingly uncomfortable pad that pinched his septum. And it took him at least two minutes to sit down, between moans and swearings, evidently put in hardships from having to bend down.  
Who knew, it might have been Alphonse — Grantaire laughed. He really couldn’t bear thinking about someone with that name — bringing him to such a miserable state.  
However, apart from them and an attractive girl with a rather olive-coloured skin, that lay with a bored look on her desk, and that had smiled at him before sitting next to him, they should have been “full occupancy”, because a fifty-something man, with a nicely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, closed the door behind him.  
His clothes were so neat they resembled an uniform as well. A golden tag with something written on it stuck out on the right side of his chest, giving him the perfect ‘imbecile’ look. The man remained still, looking at them with a scornful gaze, and at that point everyone stood up, leaving Grantaire alone fumbling with his earphones that were blasting The Kooks’ “Naive” and that didn’t want to untangle at all.  
He tried to get up too, but he almost fell on his own feet, plopping down as if he hadn’t even tried. – Let’s ignore this. – started off the classy man, settling off the other students’ greeting with a sharp gesture. Everybody sat down again, unless Grantaire, who sighed.  
The man started then a sort of ‘scoundrel roll call’, giving out glances full of disapproval, bitterness and disgust to every human being that went by a name on the list. He lingered particularly on R, maybe because of his bruised face. He tried giving him a courtesy smile back, that didn’t work at all.  
The roll call found a soul missing, and his name had already been written on what had to be, necessarily, a proscription list. Grantaire didn’t care, and he would have happily gotten back to The Kooks if the man’s deep voice hadn’t stopped him from doing so.  
– If you intend on spending a couple hours relaxing, you’re totally wrong. – R sighed again. What a pity, his plans had officially been ruined. He buried his earphones inbetween his thighs and surface of his desk. – Some of you will become just like the criminals you read about on the newspaper, I can bet on it. They always start out like this, detention first, then jail. Some of you, then, will be lucky enough to get out of there and snag a workplace as a teacher. But your record will be compromised, as will be your grades at the end of term, I swear! – The girl sitting beside him curled up, seemingly paralyzed. She must have heard something she didn’t particularly like from that school-police man. Grantaire tried sending her a look that could be translated in a ‘I think he’s mental’, but she didn’t seem to notice at all.  
\- My name is Javert, and you can bet on it, if you keep on acting miserably and reprehensibly, it will be a name you won’t forget easily. —  
Just that very moment the door opened wide, giving everyone - Javert included - the sight of a messy-haired boy, panting, a baseball helmet stuck between his hip and arm. – Mr. Bonnet didn’t want me to leave. Please don’t kill me! – the olive-skinned girl widened his eyes, before burying her face in her arms, and remained there, lifeless. — You would be too late even for a jailbird. — the man spat out.  
\- Well, this doesn’t sound very professional, sir. — protested Grantaire, a face between bored and skeptic. In no time everyone’s eyes, previously fixed on the latecomer, were on him. — Stand up, kid. — he ordered, bossy. Grantaire executed, struggling to get up and trying to bear the scornful look. — You shouldn’t dare to answer back. Ever again. –  
— Excuse me, sir, but you shouldn’t dare to say such bullshit. — R bowed a little, not too deep. When he pointed his gaze on the man again, the other one’s eyes were burning from rage, and they would have burnt him too, if only they found a way to do so.  
— Four weeks of detention. Same goes for you. — he spat out, looking at R first, then at the other boy, that hadn’t said a word since he came into the room. His nose wasn’t smashed and his face wasn’t bruised, he just looked tremendously upset. He let himself fall down on the chair between the girl and Grantaire with a sigh.  
— Now take your sheets, or whatever you have, and write down: “The aim of education is to guide young persons in the process through which they shape themselves as human persons-armed with knowledge, strength of judgment, and moral virtues…” — professor Javert started dictating, lips tight and baritone voice thundering, confident, flat as a musical note.  
A note hit Grantaire in the face, making him turn around with a very annoyed expression. He had always loathed idiot paper-ball-pranks, and his behaviour regarding that wouldn’t have changed, not even in a prison cell full of dangerous, crazed criminals.  
But it took him a relatively short time to get it wasn’t a paper ball. The writing on it was rounded, a little childish. He stared at the ink for a while before he stirred to life. 

“THANK YOU FOR THAT!”  
“Nothing. Now you can spend other full four weeks in here. I knew you wanted that more than anything else.”  
“HA-HA. NO. SERIOUSLY, IT WAS VERY KIND OF YOU.”  
“For that? Thank my lack of restraint. I think I need to do a check up.”

When Grantaire got his eyes on the other boy, he had a creepy smile cutting through his face. Two dimples as deep as the Mariana Trench made their appearance. All that enthusiasm in front on Javert, the jailer poet, made his blood run cold.


	2. Set the fire to the third bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> Sorry - we're late, we know - but with summer and stuff it wasn't easy to translate this.  
> (Translator Note: it was a bitch to translate. In fact, there's a very high chance of finding translation monstrosities all over - feel free to point them out. :B)  
> We hope you enjoy it anyways - leave a comment if you can, we super appreciate those.  
> But we super appreciate everyone who reads it nonetheless. 
> 
> Thank you again! See you hopefully sooner than last time :)

– He got up and said that? – Enjolras’s brow had risen so high it was this close to getting married to his hairline.   
– I swear. He told old Javert something like “And you should stop saying bullshit”, he bowed down and slept for the rest of the hour. –  
Combeferre seemed startled, because he kept blinking his eyes with an incredulous look, as Courfeyrac went on with his imagination tale, gesticulating so vividly that the fork fell out of Bossuet’s hands more than once.   
It had to be a tale, because it couldn’t possibly be true – that is, the one and only condition to turn something into ‘imagination’.  
Courfeyrac took a mouthful of potato salad.  
It was absolutely flavourless, but he had to eat in order not to faint at practice.  
– The most incredible thing was his face! – he burst out, trying not to scatter everywhere pieces and bits of mashed potatoes.  
– Did he look like a criminal? – Enjolras asked, not at all impressed, shoving a forkful of meat in his mouth before cleaning himself up with a napkin.   
– No. – Courfeyrac gave him a dirty look. In that moment, Jehan sat down at their table, greeting them with his usual airy voice.  
– Hello guys! What’s up? –   
– An unknown someone called the Hawk ‘asshole’ – Enjolras updated him, with an astounding composure. Maybe he didn’t really believe it. Maybe Javert called Courfeyrac ‘imbecile’, he tried fighting back and was now stuck in a four weeks’ detention with his imaginary friend, a Fight Club–like scenery, only less tragic.  
– What was going on with his face? – Combeferre insisted, pulling on Courfeyrac’s sleeve to get his attention.   
The boy turned to him, looked at him with a smug grin for a split second and then bothered to answer, as if he had just got out from underwater and was now catching up with what happened on earth.  
– He was livid. They said he burned out a cigarette on Alphonse’s face and that his crew kicked his butt. – this time Enjolras shivered, evidently touched.   
– My God, that must have hurt. –   
– You don’t even imagine how much. – Grantaire threw his tray on the table, almost sending its contents flying everywhere. All the elegance Jehan had built up had been destroyed by the newcomer, that sat right in front of Enjolras, under a few astonished looks from everyone else.  
Everyone else except Courfeyrac, who was oddly smiling.  
Ferre’s jaw must have dropped so low that it almost touched the broccoli on his plate, because the boy’s face was really a mess: the adjective “livid” didn’t really make the cut. He looked like he was in some domestic violence ad of sorts, with patches of purple bruised skin encircled by yellow hues and split lips. He hadn’t even tried to cover them up with a dab of concealer.  
– Christ! – Enjolras reached out to him. Everybody, no exceptions this time, made way to let him do it. – The student council can not let things like these happen. Ferre, get a notebook. –   
– What are you doing, writing a complaint? – there was amusement in the voice of the boy with the hair as dark as the night, which only contributed to make the overall picture even bleaker.  
The only thing that softened that absurd macabre color match were his blue eyes, totally foreign to the matter.  
Enjolras ignored the remark to get up, go past his friends and sit on the bench next to Grantaire, so he could grab his face with two bony fingers and twist it to his likes. Grantaire, that on his side was going to try and shove a forkful of food in his mouth, ended up throwing it on his own shirt.  
– Look, I really find underage abuse to be a punishable crime, really nasty stuff, but see, I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunch and I could be a little hungry… – he protested.  
– Write down: bruises and marks all over face. Black eye. Deviated nose, split lip. –   
Grantaire sighed, looking for eye contact with Enjolras for the first time, in a curious sprint, and when he found himself swimming in an iced flame, he knew he’d reached his goal. Curiosity grew bigger on him, so that he finally let go of his fork at once and let those steady, sharp yet light hands of him examine his face.   
– How did it really go? – Enjolras asked, at the end of his search. R shrugged, trying not to lose the attention in the other’s eyes as he opened his mouth to spit out what everyone already knew.  
– I don’t really believe the council will do anything about it. – he added, giving in a deep yawn. – Even more so because I saw a guy with a broken nose in detention, and if it’s the same criminal, well… I’d be careful, if I were you. Not everyone has a nice nose. I’d rather say it’s a rough period for great noses. – the boy sighed again, as if he were really upset for the ‘nose’ affair. As Enjolras opened his mouth for a remark, he was stopped in his tracks by Courfeyrac’s laugh.  
So the blonde decided to ignore everything that had just been explained, with a fiery war look stitched deep in his eyes, a look that, Grantaire was more than certain, wouldn’t burn out so easily.   
– The ABC won’t let this matter slip away. First, Adrien almost killing me in the locker room, now Alphonse… – Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras looked at him as if he was dumb, or crazy. Or maybe both, who knew?  
– Sure thing is that, if somebody hadn’t burned out a cigarette on his forehead… – Jehan started, graced by a supporting look from Combeferre, who apparently was agreeing on that point.  
– Alphonse deserves all the cigarette marks on his horrible snout. – Basset remarked, raising a fist in the air to better express his warlike purposes.  
 – No, listen up, I hadn’t gotten you were the masonry or shit like that. For real, I ask for mercy. – Grantaire made to get up with his tray, but Courfeyrac stopped him with a gesture.   
– It will be tomorrow’s meeting’s main point. How can a seventeen year old student live through this? In which way does the school provide support and protection?! By throwing him into detention? Oh, I don’t really think that… –  the blonde, soft and golden haired angel enclosed by an almost sacred light that cut everyone else out from the ray chiseled in the form of Enjolras had really started to fly, leaving them all on the ground, except maybe for Ferre who had managed to grab the tip of one of his wings before the full ride.   
Grantaire went back to his meatloaf without saying a word. Every now and then he let his eyes wander on the lithe figure of Enjolras, a boy that felt way too comfortable with monologues, apparently, and he couldn’t help being fascinated by all that light. Light in the mane of his hair, that looked like pure gold in the sun, light in his eyes, lit up by the brightest of intentions, by the fire of adolescence, by adventure. By the fire quintessential to every man that deems his own self immortal, indestructible. The fire that in Grantaire had blown out years before and that had never burned like it should, or could, have done. So Grantaire allowed himself to bask into that light, just like mother Earth did with the Sun. The tendency to get close was strong, but an ancient fear stopped him in his tracks. Something in his gut tried to tell him that he was forgetting a detail about the sun, an important one, that he should remember, and very soon. 

• • •

The girl with the olive–coloured skin stood straight in the school parking lot, right next to her bicycle. It didn’t even look like a cheerleader bike, thing that persuaded R into moving a few steps in her direction. Thanks to some kind of miracle, by means of a deity he did not believe in, they made it through their second week of detention.  
“Detention. What a shit name.” he watched the cigarette smoke spiral up only to be wiped out by the autumn breeze that kept stubbornly blowing in the lot.   
He did not have a bicycle, but Courfeyrac had begged to wait for him there, ‘cause he’d forgotten some soccer equipment somewhere. Or maybe it was football. Or maybe squash. Europeans obsessing over American sports made him genuinely smile over globalization: all those years of independence and boundary wars to end up running after someone else’s balls. Open to interpretations.’   
– Hey. – the girl greeted him as she unlocked the bicycle chain, with a rather rough move, sign that it must not have been too oiled up.  
– Hi. – R lifted his head up to the sky to avoid breathing the crap that entered his own lungs right in her face, and she seemed somewhat in awe of his politeness.  
Not that Grantaire was endowed with any, but if that girl found herself in detention, there must have been a reason that he, with his face resembling the French flag motif, was not eager to discover any soon.  
– There’s a rumor going around that Alphonse got you like this. –  
– There’s also a rumor going around that Alphonse is the worst name ever. I do not really agree. There’s Alphonsine. – the girl stifled an amused grin, raising her hands trying to contain the multitude of chocolate–coloured hair that was flying in her face with a washed out scrunchie.  
– Name’s Eponine. – she introduced herself, her hands still busy in the art of ponytail–making, teeth clenched holding the rubber band.   
– Mine’s Grantaire. – he replied. Seeing that she did not intend to move, he quickly added: – Waiting for someone? –   
– Waiting for Courferyac. –  
– Hah. He set me up when he had you. – R threw his cigarette on the ground, smashing it with the the back of his shoe and raising a bit of dust that he accidentally inhaled, resulting in him turning up his nose.  
– Oh well. Then say hi to him on my behalf. – he finished, turning around and shifting his weight effortlessly.   
But Courfeyrac himself materialized behind them, with a giant smile on his face and a plastic bag under his arm, just like a baguette or a baby. The smile widened when he saw that the two were between talking distance, and a question popped up instantly in Grantaire’s mind: why now, dimples and all, the everlasting smile on his face started to look so damn annoying?  
– Do you want your own security detail too? –   
Courfeyrac smiled even more, bending down to unlock his bicycle chain. He didn’t have to go through the same trouble Eponine did.  
– Nah, I just wanted you two to meet. Eponine, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, Eponine. –  
– I know. – she was the one who answered, busy kicking the side stand of her bike to get it on the road. But she didn’t hop onto it, instead she started walking on its left as soon as the others joined her. Grantaire fiddled a bit with the zipper of his coat, which he had tied up only a few inches, in order to stop shaking with cold.  
– By the way, everyone knows what I did, but nobody ever tells me why he or she got into detention. You all make me look like I’m the baddest of bad guys, who have something to hide for themselves, though. – protested Grantaire, annoyed, and as soon as he noticed his hands were free, he started fishing in his pockets, on the hunt for his dismembered pack of cigarettes.   
It always happened to him; by persisting in keeping them in pants’ or coats’ pockets, all of his packets ended up crushed, or broken, or really “lived out”. He opened it and turned to face his companions.  
Eponine accepted with no hesitations, grabbing a hold of the cigarette between thin fingers.  
Courfeyrac’s hand reached out and pulled back about five or six times, but in the end he also snatched one and thanked R under his overly amused eye.  
– Eponine helped someone cheat on a test. – he blurted out after a few moments, inhaling the first puff of smoke and trying so hard not to cough.  
One could tell it was not his first time smoking, but it was also clear that he never made it past two cigarettes. Eponine, on her side, held hers in between her lips even through the complex task of tying up her shoelaces, with the naturalness that Grantaire labelled a smoke–induced one.  
– His boyfriend got called ‘faggot’ by someone in the locker room, so he thought, “why not smash his nose and send his whole body balance off with a major barycenter blow. He almost got him paralyzed. – Eponine gave him a dirty look.  
– But Enjolras is not my boyfriend… – was all that Courfeyrac managed to reply back, putting up a fake, Oscar–nomination–worthy pout.  
The corners of his lips, usually bent in a smile, were now tracing the opposite curve, making the sadness in his eyes a little bit too show–off–ish.    
Eponine put an hand on his arm, maybe to give him some comfort, devastated by that image, and he took advantage of it by encircling her waist.   
– Why don’t you go out with me? You’d forget Marius in a heartbeat, I swear. – and saying so, he turned a little over her, giving her what should have been a seducing wink.   
The attempt seemed to gross Eponine out, and she backed off. – Who told you I have to forget Marius? –   
R could foresee that the two were slowly sinking in a personal world of insight stuff he wasn’t allowed in, at least not yet. A world he would not get, full of silent looks and memories he hadn’t lived.   
But, not unlike watching the tiny citadel in a snowball, he would have happily kept his mouth shut, outside of their glass bubble, ghost observer of Mystery Town, as long as the two wouldn’t care.   
He would’ve kept their little city very quiet.  
– You ended up in detention for him and he hasn’t kissed you yet. – Courfeyrac sounded amused, confused, curious and a bit arrogant too.  
– Ha, so you and Enjolras kiss! –    
– No! I didn’t mean that! I don’t like Enjolras that way! – the pout made another appearance on Courfeyrac’s face, full blown, similar to the first one, only heavier. He even stopped talking for two minutes, one–hundred–and–twenty seconds, irrefutable proof of how much he was hurt and shut–mouth record since he’d babbled his very first word at the age of one.   
– And maybe you should try telling him, that you like him, I mean. Marius sometimes doesn’t get others’ feelings, but he’s not dumb. –  
– You come to me to give a ‘talking–to’ on feelings?! First, find out what you want from life, then maybe I’ll accept advice from you. And I don’t ‘like’ Marius. –  
Courfeyrac looked really, really hurt now.  
– You say it? –   
– Shut up. – she got rid of the matter with an irritated hand gesture, as if she was wiping some chalk from a giant floating blackboard. – Grantaire, you’re new here, am I right? –  
The boy shook his black curls in a nod.   
– Have you made any friends yet? –  
R looked at her as if she had just pulled out the geocentric theory model and was convinced of it. Before answering, he lingered a few moments on her curious expression, losing himself a bit between her dark eyes and high, reddened cheekbones. Even though she was skinny, her cheeks were full, and the chubbiness of her face underlined the sweet sparkle of her look, which had never gone missing since she started talking to him a few minutes before.   
– They beat me on my first day of school and I’m known for having burned out a cigarette on the forehead of an apparently dangerous criminal. So, despite my sweet disposition, – he smirked at the quote, – no. –   
The smirk turned into a beastlike grin, just before R stopped at the beginning of the road that would take him to his miserable place, where his miserable father and his miserable homework – that he was not going to do anyways – were waiting for him.  
– I live here. – he explained to the two, who, judging from their puzzled looks, hadn’t quite gotten the reason of the stop.   
Before he could add anything else, Eponine had already grabbed one of his hands and was scribbling what presumably was her phone number on it. Grantaire looked at his own hand for what seemed the first time in ages. His nails were all bitten over, he had scars here and there and the skin was rough, not at all like the one of the girl that held it or Enjolras’.   
His long fingers were not thin, but calloused and darker than the blonde’s.  
Courfeyrac interrupted abruptly the course of his thoughts, watching Eponine first in wonder, then in awe, and then again with rage.   
– I want him to have my number, too! – he whined, stealing the pen from Eponine, who had finished writing anyways.   
– And I have something more. Saturday, nine o’clock, café Musain. Do you think you can find it on your own or I have to come get you? –   
– Saturday, nine o’clock? God, I hadn’t realized Paris was on a timezone on its own. – 

• • •

Courfeyrac, in the end, had decided to “come get him”, not because otherwise R wouldn’t have found the place, more like because “it’s on my way anyways”.   
Or at least, that was the excuse he put up.  
So, walking shoulder–to–shoulder in the dense Parisian fog of that very special September day, Grantaire couldn’t help thinking about that very special figure that was escorting him. He’d seen him flirt with Eponine, mock her and then talk about Enjolras. He too, like the others, was fascinated by that mystic being, clearly gifted with an incredible leadership and charme. Apart from that, Grantaire’s spirit of observation led him to one, only, sad thing: how needy, in affection–seeking terms, was the poor boy. With an unrestrained passion for crashing into everybody’s conversations, the absurd talent of smiling a little bit too much, and… the tendency not to put any customs between his heart and his brain. If it was this easy to get in his life, it must have been just as easy to wreck him from the inside, making him crumble like wet sand, blowing him in the wind like pollen. He found himself wondering if someone had done it before, if someone had had the audacity or the guts to manage to break the little smiling toy soldier that sparkled even under pouring rain, but then he surrendered to the fact that he didn’t know a thing about him, and, to be honest, he was completely fine that way.   
All the way to the famous café Musain, the only voice filling the air was Courfeyrac’s, who didn’t even risk inhaling in fear of being interrupted in the middle of his heartfelt and surprising explanation of sorts (it really seemed interesting at first, but R was way too sleepy to try following it from the start.) So Grantaire heard without listening every bit of knowledge he was giving him, demonstrating a meek patience and some compliance, classic–him. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, they really couldn’t ask him for too much.  
– We meet here and discuss stuff. –he’d started out.  
Grantaire had looked at him really confused. – Stuff? –   
– Yeah, literature, poetry, and we do our homework too. And we have this closed–number school group, where we talk about problems in school and in the outside world and we try to work them out. Cool, huh? –   
– A 21st century literary café, you mean? So “Dead Poets Society”… and Enjolras is the little big lecturer of the whole thing, isn’t it? Your Socrates, the guide. –  
– You know Socrates? –  
– I said I come from Charleville, not from a hermit family. –   
The boy didn’t even spare a thought about the reason why hermits should form a family.   
– Then you could be one of us! – Courfeyrac was taller than him by just a few inches, and stretched out his hand to ruffle his hair.  
Grantaire, epitome of idleness, let him.  
– So you’re going to introduce me to the Vilains Bonshommes? – the other one bursted into laughter. – They’ll be happy of the name! – 

• • •

The Musain wasn’t such an interesting, peculiar or strange place. It didn’t have anything too hipster or bohemian, and R thanked the stars for it.  
It did look very modern, though, and, even if the sign outside raved about it being an ancient café, someone had bothered renewing it.  
R didn’t have any time to look around anyways, as he was dragged at lightning speed into what seemed to be a table in the back room of the shop. It wasn’t the back room, no, but it really looked like it, because there were stairs and it was almost a room aside, its population consisting only of students with no uniform, chatting and joking together.  
– Sorry we’re late, but Grantaire doesn’t have a doorbell. –   
As if he hadn’t said that yet, they both felt a burning glare staring right at them, not unlike the one of the tiger ready to attack his next meal or of Javert on every other human being.  
– What the hell is he doing here? – Enjolras of course did the talking.  
Flawless in his red sweater, he stood at the head of the table. His chair was a few inches away from him. Good sign, it could’ve meant that he didn’t stand up because he was about to eat them, but just because he never sat in the first place.  
– We’re about to talk about his beating. –  
– So? – the ice in his eyes, hit by morning light that came through one of the many windows, glimmered again, not like calm flat water, not like a stormy sea, but as a fire that burned, burned and went aflame, destroyed, and even without scattering salt over the ashes, nothing different from what his heart desired could grow up.  
– I thought he ought to be here. I’m sorry… –  
In that moment, something happened, a thing that to Grantaire seemed extraordinary and felt like a low blow. As soon as Courfeyrac lowered his eyes to look at his shoes, caught in piercing self–guilt, something in the fire changed. It burned out, quenched by a bucketful of cold water, into which the flames had dissolved just as the other boy’s suffering took over. Enjolras reached out to him, placing his hands on Courfeyrac’s chest, and proceeded to reassure him with easy words.   
– Don’t worry. It’s nothing. And he will be useful. – despite the words being comfort talk, it wasn’t soft at all, and in pronouncing them he struck him with a deathly glare.  
_You will be useful, won’t you?_  
So Grantaire, resting his body on the first wooden chair he could find, surrendered permanently to the only desire his body had, and answered that _yes, he’d be useful_. 

• • •

Jehan was laughing hysterically onto Grantaire’s naked arm, whose throat felt just as if the devil had made his new home in it, sort of like when the catholic curia moved to Avignon.   
Bossuet and Courfeyrac, when the afternoon fell due, had seized both his arms and convinced him to spend a night with them. Not that there was much persuading work to do, when there were bottles of alcohol involved. So, as the sun burned down, they had managed to find a new bar certainly of their liking. Courfeyrac appeared to be already knowing it, to be honest, also because of the way he was greeted by the bartenders. Getting in, Grantaire saw a glimpse of light at the deep end of their eyes, and told himself it was the light of the men who knew.  
Who knew all mysteries of the Earth and universe? Who could solve all problems of modern society? No, not at all. That must have been the light that men who _knew mankind_ possessed. Men who lived to the extreme, abundance through foreign eyes. Bystanders of masterful shows. 

_Anger turned rage, love turned lust, melancholy turned depression._

They saw people raise their glasses in the name of something, only to let slip away that it was all different. So Grantaire allowed a smile to both barmen.  
“I get what you know”, it meant. But, more likely, it came across only as an act of kindness.   
Then, the three musketeers plus one, they drank. First a couple of beers, which multiplied like loaves and fishes. Each time the bartender came near their table, he scuttled off with four empty beers in his hands and got back with just as many full to the brim.  
– If Catiline is the spoiled fruit of his time, then we’re rotten children of ours. –   
Grantaire spat out sometime, introducing the “philosophy” matter, as he’d done that afternoon.   
At another table.  
In another place.  
The three that went along with him laughed, and then started something that could have been defined a full blown debate on everything that was wrong with modern society. – See, see! – Courfeyrac began, determined. – The problem isn’t the government. No, wait, don’t pull a face, Bossuet. Jehan, waste some time on me. And you, Grantaire, leave out that anarchic sophist look on your face and let me explain. – he spread out his hand in front of the three, as if it could stop their words from hitting him and allow his own sentences to leap free in the air.  
– It is the government’s fault too. This is a little bit better, huh? Anyways, people don’t vote, they don’t express themselves. Apathy poisons us. The truth, says Enjolras, is that, at least until the pueblo has a mouthful of bread to munch on, they won’t bite the hand that feeds them. Indolence, this is what is killing us, I tell you.  Indolence, oh, indolence! – Bossuet shook his head, not because he didn’t agree, but because the other one’s shaky moves were getting bigger and funnier every limb he dared to lift.   
– And you always agree with what Enjolras says? –  
–– Who knows. –   
– Don’t you think he could be wrong? –  
– I share his ideas, but I don’t elevate him to godlike status, much more a representative one. Mister Chief Representative of Every France and Elsewhere, all the world for Enjolras! Cheers! – he exclaimed contently, clapping his hands.  
Courfeyrac and Bossuet, by then, had gotten themselves to… many, many beers, and then subsequently proceeded to advise Grantaire on a shot of something that made first his mouth explode, second his head burst. The table, alike to the one that shortly before had been used as a study prop for the realization of rules that should lead an idealistic utopic school system, was now propping up four boys who couldn’t manage talking about dead people without bursting into profane laughter.    
–It’s always hard to chat with a drunk man; no way, being sober means being inferior. – Grantaire mumbled, his head the highest it had been in the last few months. He showed himself proud and stiff, he basked in the disgust he felt for his own being.

_Idleness turned disgust._

He breathed alcohol in and out, he felt it in his lungs, other than in his head and every other body part. The time of reason was long gone, even if he still got first place in chatting among the others, thanks to the spiraling habit that his little vice had bought in.

_Vice turned addiction._

That was it, that associated him to the monster he had the honor of calling ‘father’, that was what made a beast of him with no escape routes. It was as the gods had decided to make him pay for his parent’s sins and there were no Eumenides left, only Erinyes ready to condemn him. In reality, the thought only made him laugh, because he didn’t feel guilty or gross at all. He never felt disgusted.  
If anything, he admired himself sensationally.  
He’d declare alcohol as one and only given thing, he’d put it as a postulate to build up a new philosophy. A little dystopian, but what else could he do?  
_First, alcohol is the only thing. Established that, try to make that jiminy cricket of yours shut up. Smash it, look around for him or cage him in a jar. If all else fails, drown him in wine._  
– Ooh, this one was famous. – Courfeyrac stood up, stumbling. He didn’t have the drinker’s physique at all, maybe he classified third, but only because Jehan, his head stuck in a flower pot, really went looking for the last place.  
Probably he was going to ask for another drink, or if one could throw up in the bathroom, and Grantaire couldn’t help but start laughing again with Bossuet, reminiscing of the poor figure Courfeyrac had doomed himself with shortly before with the waitress, throwing his body onto her. A quick glance to the clock informed him that 4 AM were a close reality, and a sprint of anything but self–love made him get up; he didn’t intend on going home, paying the bill or wasting time looking for a bathroom, even if it was clear that throwing up would’ve eased the feeling of discomfort that spread in waves through his whole body. He got up to ask for another bottle of wine instead, reaching out on the smooth counter and looking for the sparkle he’d seen in the guy’s eyes. But a rough yank, almost painful, got him away from the golden pot of happiness and made him awkwardly aware of the floor that was effectively under his feet.  – Where’s Courfeyrac? –  
– No clue. – croaked R.  
His blue eyes were now watered down with alcohol, shining with drunkenness and nothing more; his dark hair stuck to his forehead, maybe making him look a little too blanched out. He was still a fair lot less drunken than the others – he’d even gift himself with first place! – but for a second there, he really felt the laugh.   
The cold, harsh expression on Enjolras’ face was like the highest wall on a blind alley. And the only thing Grantaire could do was overcome it.   
Just as his head was starting to argu–e and elaborate the new thought at the same time, the sound of shattered glass send the blonde angel’s senses tingling, making him turn his divine gaze towards men. He found Courfeyrac, on all fours on shards, who couldn’t do anything but laugh, despite his hands on the fragments. The boy ran immediately to his help, faster than everybody else in the room, except maybe for Ferre. He got him back up and checked he didn’t get hurt in the scuffle. E he did, because his hands were both blood–stained. His tone was bossy when he ordered Courfeyrac to get ready to go home. He protested, turning his lips and begging him to let him finish at least another bottle, but Enjolras said no, firmly, helped him put on his coat and left him for a few seconds in Ferre’s thin arms, Ferre who had never stopped asking him how he felt, or trying to clean his hands as if he were a baby. Courfeyrac laughed and so did Grantaire, in a desperate attempt to limp towards them. He managed to get there with no particular trouble, but as a welcome he found only a disgusted look from Enjolras, as he tried to rest one hand on the shoulder of the other boy, who drifted apart harshly, letting R lean forward dangerously, risking to smash his face for the second time.    
Grantaire then looked at him, lost, but in his eyes he didn’t find the fire that melted after the water, no clear stream or fair sky. He didn’t find stormy seas, only good, old, everlasting flames that burned down everything, destroying their paths, and with no mercy allowed his damned soul to be forgiven.  
And even in that burning mess, he came looking for warmth, but found rage, the same dreadful destruction that reduced him to silence at that same table just a few days before. Grantaire stepped back, ending up tumbling on his own feet, again.  
– I spent an afternoon trying to find out a way to avoid you being turned into minced meat by the end of the year and you come here, killing yourself like an idiot. – Enjolras whispered that with the bitter cold of a thousand blades stabbing the ground where a thousand soldiers were buried.   
– You do not have self–respect, you won’t have it from me. –  he ended, kicking away the last support Grantaire held onto – his eyes, his wonderful, azure sapphires – to turn abruptly to Courfeyrac, who was shifting his weight dangerously from one foot to another, laughing. Ferre was smiling too now, as he tried to convince him that maybe going home was the best thing to do; R collapsed then on a stool, apparently sturdy enough to feel unstable too, and sat there observing the whole scene, with Enjolras’ words dancing through his head.    
Just to be safe, he ordered a shot of absinthe.  
Alcohol refrained him from metabolizing, but the high drunkenness left with Courfeyrac, leaving him with the idleness he felt on a daily basis for everything, amped up by the poison running through his veins that night. 

_Happiness turned apathy._

As he collapsed on the counter beside him, memories kept bleaching out, getting more and more confused, as did the voices around him and everything he’d heard. Bossuet’s jokes, the barman’s words, it all turned off completely. Only a winged silhouette stood out inbetween all his blurry thoughts, whether they’d be real or not, gorgeous and free as he would have liked to be. It basked in the sunlight, it lazed in that marvelous privilege, it rolled up in rays, it drank gold and covered itself in pure warmth. Then something went wrong, and the sun didn’t seem so convincing anymore, but he couldn’t explain it as in his ‘two plus two’ the answer was more than clear, but there was a factor he was forgetting.  
_Was perhaps the sun trying to destroy him?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading it all! If you want, if you can, leave a comment and let me know what you think - it would make me extremely happy. Until next time!


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